The Family that Kills
by Gayani
Summary: Set post season 7. Now that Deb has done the unthinkable, where do they go from here? Debster centric. Rated M for some smut.


A/N: Ok guys. I know I owe you something else. And how hard could it be, right? I mean it is one measly little chapter-the last one in fact. It shouldn't be so difficult to give you one last chapter and be done. Right? Right?! Yeah, sorry So I promise I am still working at it or staring at it and getting nowhere but in the meantime I figured I might as well work on other things too. So I made a thing for you. And it's pretty. And it's LONG.

Anyhow this one definitely went in a decidedly different direction! We'll call it major character development. I'm curious to see if people like it or hate it so please share your feels! There is certainly potential for a part 2 as well…

Set post season 7, so spoilers through there. As always, thanks for reading!

* * *

She insists on it, demands it. He's not allowed anymore to go on his own, to do this without her. He hasn't been able to figure out why, but he's not complaining. He enjoys having her here. He wants her around. Even if she hates it. Even if every night of this turns her a bit darker, extinguishes a little more of her light.

Dexter looks over at her, her eyes cast down towards the table, her hands fidgeting in her leather gloves. He waits until she looks up, gives him a nod. She meanders to the plastic covered wall, leans against it. Her posture is tense, she bites her lip, frowning at his hesitation.

He takes the hint, breaks open his smelling salts and waves them under the nose of his latest victim. The man wakes with a start, looks up at Dexter in confusion. His eyes scan his surroundings, find Deb's figure a few feet away. "What the fuck?! Bitch!" He spits venomously.

Deb doesn't flinch, stares at him coldly, unmoved. But Dexter is far less forgiving. His hand is around the man's throat, pressing uncomfortably on his windpipe until he is sputtering, eyes popping out. "Shut the fuck up!" Dexter grinds out.

Dexter releases his grip just as the man's eyes are rolling back and the sound of his wheezing soon fills the room. Dexter ignores this, examines his knife as he explains. "Debra was nice enough to assist me when she realized she is just your type. You like to meet beautiful, young, unsuspecting women in bars. Flirt with them before you rape them and murder them."

The man coughs, shakes his head. "No! I…I" He has no defense and looks up at Dexter uncertainly.

Dexter returns his gaze, presses his index finger into the man's forehead. "You know what you've done. You can't even deny it." Dexter scowls down at him, leaning in close. He stands back up, throws a cautious glance at Deb, whose eyes are trained on the man.

Dexter is never quite sure about this part. If she can handle it. There have been nearly 10 already. And each time Dexter worries if this will be the one to end things. If this will be the kill she will witness that will destroy her. Or maybe him. He wonders each and every time if she will suddenly turn on him, kill him like she should have months before. Perhaps this will be the night when she will go home and swallow a bottle of pills. Or maybe tomorrow she will go back into the police station she hasn't set foot in for months and tell them the whole horrible truth.

But they've come this far. And asking her to leave never ends well. He turns back to his prey instead, raises the knife, watches his eyes widen in fear and brings the blade down with force. For a moment all those worries leave him. He feels untethered, at peace as he watches the blood swell around the knife, filter through the layers of plastic.

Taking a deep breath he pulls the knife out, looks over toward Deb. She is stony, silent, her gaze slowly drifts from the body up to him. This is the only time it isn't filled with utter contempt. For these few moments, he sees her understanding. He sees her acceptance. He also sees her self-hatred.

* * *

The first month after LaGuerta's death, he is too wrapped up with other things to worry about his next kill. Deb barely speaks to him, even though they are practically living together. It was a tacit agreement. He brought her home with him New Year's Day when their entire world had shifted sideways. He took her home a few days later for a bag of clothes before they returned to his apartment and set her up in the spare room. Jaime barely blinked at it, understanding how Angel was mourning as well.

She went through the motions the first few weeks. Then one day she tells him very simply over breakfast that she won't be going in. Dexter stares at her in confusion until she gets up, goes to her room and shuts the door. He thinks things will be better the next day, until Deb informs him she's quit, that she can't pretend she is worthy of the job anymore. He tries to convince her otherwise, tell her she is not the bad person she believes herself to be, but the look she gives him makes him hate himself.

Six weeks after LaGuerta's death he finally feels the itch. He digs out the file he was looking at before all the craziness of the past few months. Deb has disappeared to somewhere for the night and he asks Jaime to watch Harrison. He's sitting in a crowded bar, waiting for his prey, when he catches sight of something familiar. Their eyes meet, her green ones like a laser, cutting through the dense throng of bodies.

All else forgotten, he twists his way through the sea of people coming to her side and staring down at her. She barely affords him a glimpse. He leans close "Are you here to stop me?"

Deb just shakes her head. "Which one?" her eyes dart around the room and Dexter tilts his head towards the tall, thin man with the beard. The man makes a move then, heading towards the door. There's not enough time to question why Deb follows him as they both rush out after him.

She stands to the side as he incapacitates the man, watches him load the limp body into the car. When she jumps into the car herself Dexter finally wonders what is happening. Deb looks at him, sighs. "Drive before some fucktard sees us."

He obliges, takes them to his prepared kill room. He tries not to question her again until everything is ready. He looks over at her, sees her choice of clothing for the first time. Dark khaki pants, an army green Henley. Her usually loose hair pulled back. She doesn't have gloves, but she has been careful not to touch anything.

"What are you doing Deb?" Dexter finally asks as they stand on opposite ends of the table.

Deb looks down at the bare feet of the man on the table. "Just do it." She mutters.

"No, you shouldn't be here." Dexter argues.

"I've seen it before." Debra's voice is ice cold. "I've done it."

He decides then he shouldn't fight her. He'll do this, just one time. He'll obey her wishes. He's fairly certain that if he does she will never ask him for this again. He's nearly sure that doing this will be the end of everything. But she hasn't asked him for anything in so long when she's done so much for him.

He doesn't bother to wake the man. Doesn't want him to see his sister. All he wants is for this to be done, so he can know what happens next. He plunges his knife in, takes the briefest of moments to enjoy it, before he looks back up at her. Deb stares down at the now lifeless body then slowly closes her eyes.

Dexter moves around to her side of the table, waits for some sort of reaction. Instead she walks out of the room, wordlessly. He finishes the clean up, loads up the car while Deb leans against it and watches. Neither says a word while they take the boat out, while he dumps the body, the whole drive back home. Finally inside his apartment, Deb's knees give. She collapses like a newborn calf, her legs not strong enough to hold her up.

Dexter squats down in front of her as she begins to cry softly. He wraps his arms around her, holds her head against his chest as she sobs.

* * *

Deb thinks of his next kill before he can. He comes home a week later to find her sitting on his couch, file in hand, eyes glazed over. Concerned he sits on the coffee table in front of her, pries the file away.

It is open in his hands and he looks over the sins of Danny Kocher. A pedophile, scum of the earth. "This one. We'll start tomorrow night."

Dexter looks up at her, startled. "What?"

"He's vetted, but I don't think you have his movements down yet. We can take him out next week if all goes well."

Dexter feels nauseated. He had thought this was over. He closes the file, dumps it on his desk before walking out the door. Deb finds him a moment later, standing at the railing outside his apartment. She stands next to him, her gaze on the dark horizon.

"Why are you doing this?" Dex asks in bewilderment.

"The same reason you are." Deb replies nonchalantly.

"No!" Dexter is suddenly so angry he thinks he might really hurt her. He wonders if it is the only way she will snap out of this. He grabs onto her arms roughly, his fingers digging deep enough that she'll have a clear set of bruises. "I don't have a choice! You do!"

Deb doesn't even wince at his grip. Just returns his look coolly. "That's bullshit and you know it."

He lets go abruptly and Deb rocks back on her heels, regaining her balance. Dexter runs one hand through his hair, the other gripping onto the railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. "I can't let you do this to yourself."

"It's already done." Deb replies before turning on her heel and heading through the door alone.

Dexter can't stop thinking about it the next day. He decides he might be able to save Deb. He will take out the pedophile without her; break her of what is becoming a nasty habit. He goes straight from work, finds Danny leaving his job and tails him the rest of the evening.

Dexter trails him to his crummy apartment building, sits in the car and tries to decide if he should take him out right there and then. He doesn't like going at it without a plan, but the sooner the better in this case. His eyes drift over the parking lot and he's astonished to see Deb's car parked down at the other end of the lot.

He's out of the car in the blink of an eye, storming towards where she sits, with her window rolled down. In the dimming light he can see her, aviators hiding her eyes. She doesn't look at him when he reaches her. Dexter grabs onto the car door. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

Deb turns slowly towards him. "You started without me."

Dexter shakes his head. He slams his fist on the car door. "Dammit Debra!"

There's the slightest hint of amusement for a moment as she watches his anger brewing. She never knew she could affect him this way. "I knew you would try to get around me." She taunts.

"Just…go home!"

"No way in fuck am I missing this." Deb smirks at him. "If you were thinking of doing it tonight, why the fuck not?" She glances up at the door to Danny's apartment.

"No, I'm not doing this with you again. I won't let you be tainted any further."

She sighs at him, shakes her head with pity. "You're too late."

When he doesn't budge, she reaches for the handle of her door, forces him back as she opens it. She closes her car door, sits back against it as she considers him. "Let's go."

Dexter shakes his head, gives her a pleading look. "I don't understand."

"You don't need to." Deb walks away, towards his car. She opens the trunk, pulls on some latex gloves from her pocket, finds his M99 in his black bag. She hands it to Dex. "Are we doing this here or somewhere else?"

Dex takes the needle out of her hand, presses his fingers into her latex covered palm. "Deb…"

"I'm running out of fucking patience here."

Dexter glances around; glad that nightfall is upon them. The parking lot is deserted, people avoid being outside alone this time of night, in this neighborhood. It will work to their advantage. He takes another long look at the woman standing next to him. He doesn't know who she is anymore and it frightens him.

"I'll take care of him." Dex lifts the syringe into view. "Then we'll setup the plastic in his apartment."

"I can knock him out." Deb argues.

"No. I'll take care of it." Dexter growls at her. Deb shrugs in agreement, watches him take the stairs up to the apartment.

The night goes smoothly. Dexter remembers how much easier it is to setup a kill room with a partner. Dexter wakes Danny up this time and Deb observes the interaction, understands better who this dark passenger is. She watches the first cut, as Dex separates Danny's leg below the knee. But it's too much for the time being and she waits outside in the car for him to finish.

Out on the boat Deb doesn't touch the bags, but she leans over the side as he dumps them, watches them float into the darkness. He sits down next to her, wants to ask her if she's ok, but he knows she's not. They head home in silence.

She pulls him through his door, back into his bedroom. She shoves him down onto the mattress, then gets onto the bed with him, curls into and around him. He can feel the warm drops of her tears as they wet his shirt. Her limbs tangle with his. It reminds him of the way a strangler fig latches onto its host tree, feeds off of it until it dies. Dexter wonders which one of them is the parasite.

* * *

Dexter isn't surprised when Deb picks their next target herself, vets him and announces she's already setup the kill room. He presses the pads of his thumbs over his eyelids, fights the oncoming headache unsuccessfully. He vows he won't let her watch this time.

Of course, Deb won't hear of it.

The room is perfect; Dexter tries not to be impressed. But as Deb pointed out herself once, she's been on the table, she knows it well. This latest victim is trussed up in a foreclosed house, just a few blocks from Deb's place.

"You should go." Dex stands in front of her, wipes his gloves across the blade of his knife.

"Fuck off." Deb curses.

"I'm serious. This isn't good for you. It's bad enough I'm bringing you along for any of this." Dexter looks at her worriedly.

"I'm just fine, fuck you very much." Deb scowls at him. "If you think I'm leaving you to do this alone after all the fucking effort I've put in then you've got another thing coming."

Dexter places the knife down on the table, looks at her as she paces back and forth in the room. The plastic rustles slightly with each step. "What exactly do you think this is? A project? A job?"

Deb stops, turns to him. "Why the fuck not? I've got nothing better to do."

"So what? You're telling me you left a prominent position at Miami Metro to sneak around playing serial killer."

"It's the best I could do." Deb croaks.

Dexter furrows his brow at her, not following the train of thought.

"I can't fucking be Lieutenant of Homicide when I'm protecting a serial killer and killing my captain!" Deb gesticulates violently in his direction.

Dexter shakes his head, moves towards her. "Deb, one has nothing to do with the other."

"Ha!" Deb throws her hands up. "You're fucking insane! Do you even hear yourself?"

"Do you!?"

"At least I'm realistic about what I am. About what I've done. You walk around here like some kind of fucking hero. You act like everyone should be fucking thanking you!" Deb madly chuckles.

"I'm cleaning up the mess." Dexter reasons.

"You're killing people because you enjoy it." Deb snarls, points her finger at him and leans forward. "Don't get on your fucking high horse about what this really is."

"It still serves a purpose." Dexter tries to explain.

"Which is why I'm here. It's the only fucking reason I'm here."

Dexter tilts his head at her questioningly.

"It's the only type of good I'm capable of anymore." Deb's face collapses, her mouth turning down, eyebrows bunching. "The only good I can do is helping you kill people." She whispers, nearly horrified.

Dexter closes the space between them, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his chin against her shoulder. "It's not true. You're better than this." His voice is soft as it glides past her ear.

"I don't remember how to be." Deb pulls back, moves towards the table and the man lying atop it. Her gloved fingers slide over the blade, mimicking Dexter's earlier movement. "Do it." The coldness has settled back onto her, the momentary lapse of shame and guilt buried underneath it.

Dexter obliges, yet again. She stands next to him this time, one hand on his back, as he lifts the knife and slices through flesh. He hears her gasp as he does this, feels her fingers dig into him briefly. He leaves the knife in the body, yanks his gloves off and wraps his arms around her once again. His hands cradle her head as she shivers in his grasp. This time she doesn't cry.

* * *

Deb follows slowly behind Dexter as he opens the door to his…no, their apartment. She hasn't given up her little house on the beach, but she can't even recall the last time she went there. It's been six months since she murdered LaGuerta. And in that time she's been there for 11, after tonight 12, of Dexter's kills.

He stopped arguing with her awhile back. He had thought he would go without her. He thought he would take back control, find his perp, do the deed without Debra knowing. But he couldn't get it passed her and she had given him hell for trying to.

She had been damn proud of herself. After all the lies he had told her for so many years, with the truth exposed, why did he think he could fool her anymore? She had walked into his kill room one night and it reminded her of the first time it happened. He was just as shocked, to her amusement. Then she had screamed at him, punched him, completely broken down on him, until he had agreed that he would do whatever she wanted. That was the first night she knew the control she had over him. And she relished it.

She leans against the kitchen counter and hears Dexter's voice drifting in from Harrison's side of the apartment, relieving the babysitter for the night. With Jaime graduated and moved away, she was Harrison's caretaker. Who would have thought? Debra Morgan-Stay At Home Mom. Still, it was less strange than Debra Morgan-Serial Killer Assistant.

It all felt like a burden. But then again, every waking moment since New Year's had felt this way. The guilt was like a heavy stone, sitting in her stomach, always with her. She didn't expect any different. In fact, she didn't even want anything else. She deserved this. And she deserved to add to that guilt. Which was what she did every night she went on the prowl with Dexter.

It was a contradiction. On the one hand, what Dexter did, sometimes it was necessary. It didn't make it right. It didn't make everything fucking ok. But it was in some ways better than leaving those assholes out there, doing what they did. At least when their guilt was pretty fucking clear. But at the same time, she knew how wrong it all was. Fundamentally fucked up. And she was helping.

But she knew he would do this anyways. He would always do just this. And if she couldn't be a good cop anymore, if she couldn't be a decent fucking person…well then maybe helping him was better than nothing.

Dexter returns to the kitchen as she thinks about this, pulls two beers out of the fridge and hands her one. She doesn't feel like falling apart now when they come back from a kill. It feels all so fucking normal to sit here and share a beer with her brother after they've just kidnapped, murdered and dumped a corpse in the fucking ocean.

Deb sighs, takes a seat at the counter and a long swig of beer.

"How long are you going to keep doing this?" Dexter asks her quietly. If she didn't know better she would say he sounded remorseful. Deb just shrugs at him, watches her thumb skim along the label on the bottle.

He comes around to her side, right up next to her. He runs his hand soothingly along her shoulder and down her back. He's been doing this a lot lately. Touching her the way he would Harrison. Or a pet. But she isn't complaining. It's comforting, even if she doesn't deserve it.

Tonight he leans into her, his chest pressing against her arm as he leans his head against hers. She can hear him breathe deeply, inhaling her scent. It should seem odder than it does.

She looks up at him when he leans back, and they stare at each other for a minute. He leans in again and she doesn't understand why until his lips connect with hers. She watches him, his eyes closed, feels his arms wrap around her and pull her closer so that she slides off the chair and fully into his embrace. But she doesn't feel anything.

She stays in his arms, half limp, as he breaks the kiss. When she doesn't say anything, doesn't react, he kisses her again. Her mouth gives beneath his and there is a slight touch of his tongue. Still she feels nothing.

Dexter pulls back once more, furrows his brow at her, lets his arms fall to his sides. She doesn't bother to say anything, to offer him anything in return. She closes her eyes briefly, takes a deep breath. She's sure she is dead inside.

* * *

Dexter opens the door to his apartment one evening after work and immediately sees red. It's all fairly innocent as far as he can tell. After all, they're supposed to be friends. But all he can see is Detective Quinn's grubby hands on Debra's knee.

Deb barely acknowledges him as he drops his bag by his desk and comes into the living room, stopping in front of the coffee table. Quinn gives Dex a small nod and it's all Dexter can do to not jump across the barrier between them and take him by the throat.

He passes off a tight smile instead. "I didn't know you were stopping by."

Quinn shrugs. "I told you I've been wanting to try to convince Deb to come back. We need her." Quinn turns back to Deb as he says this and Dexter watches bitterly as the detective rubs her back. To his increasing frustration Deb responds, leaning into his touch, completely ignoring her brother's presence.

They haven't discussed what happened four nights before when he kissed her, and when she didn't seem to have any reaction at all. They haven't talked about the nights she has slept wound tightly around him. Or the way he has sought to touch her with more frequency than they've ever known before. But here she is, getting cozy again with the detective, right in front of him. Dexter balls his hands tightly, feels his nails digging uncomfortably into his palm.

Dex clears his throat. "Deb. We should probably get going. We have that thing…"

He watches as Deb's gaze comes up sharply. Her brows furrow as her analytical gaze sweeps over him, looking for his intention. In all the months they've been doing this, he has never before encouraged it. He has never been the one to suggest they go out to vet a potential friend. He has never been keen to take her along with him.

She doesn't know his exact motive, but an hour of listening to Joey tell her she should be back at work, that they needed more good guys out there, made her feel even more evil. The least she could do was embrace the feeling; go out stalking in the dark where she belonged.

She nods at Dex, shows Quinn to the door promising to the think about it. The two of them left alone Deb steps closer to Dex. She doesn't trust any of this, but she doesn't know how to talk to her brother anymore.

* * *

He stares at the back of her head in the dark. He knows she is awake. He opens his mouth to say something, anything that will right the wrongs between them. But there are no more words. He has tried to apologize, but she isn't interested in his regrets. And he knows it is too late now for them to do either one any good.

He turns towards her, places his hand on the small of her back, slides it around so it splays against her stomach and pulls himself closely behind her. For a moment, nestled together, he can almost forget that she hates him. It doesn't last long, as she pulls his hand away and pushes him back so she can turn and face him.

"Do you care about me?" Her voice is small and distant, despite the fact that she is mere inches away, one of her legs hooked over his at the knee. It brings back a memory, sharp and vivid. His bedroom floor, her tiny hand on his arm, a question saved for the dark.

He remembers his response clearly "_Of course I do"._

"_Why?" _She wasn't more than nine.

"_Because you're my sister."_ That is after all what Harry had drilled into his head, repeatedly. Look out for Deb who is younger, helpless, needs an older brother to guide her. Be a good brother, it will help to mask other things.

"_But I'm not."_ He can't see her face, but he can hear the tremor in her voice. The reminder of the bullies at school that afternoon. He was adopted, unwanted. It hadn't bothered him, but Deb had gotten angry as usual. Flown to his defense. He often wondered if their father realized that Deb was not helpless at all.

"_You are. It doesn't matter what anyone says."_

She's quiet for so long he is sure she has fallen asleep. He is just beginning to drift off when he hears her again.

"_Would you still care about me if I wasn't your sister?"_ He thinks about this for a moment. But he knows that Harry's demands to be a good big brother were never the reason that he tried so hard to be.

"_Yes. You're a good person."_ At least he believes so. Because he knows he is not. Something is wrong with him. But Deb is different. And he thinks if he could be like her, he might have been okay. So he thinks the best he can do is to watch out for her, to be there.

He can hear the smile in her voice as she says _"I love you Dex."_

He can still hear that smile in the recesses of his brain as he looks at her now, grown up and changed. Is she still a good person? Does it even matter anymore?

"I love you." He tells her this as earnestly as he can. He needs her to know this, understand it.

"That doesn't answer the question." He can see Deb watching him, gauging his reaction. When he stares at her uncertainly she continues. "I know you love me. But I know you've hurt me. So maybe you don't care enough not to. Or maybe you just don't know how."

"I'm sorry." He whispers this. He knows it changes nothing and he can hear her exasperated sigh in response. "Just tell me what to do. I'll do anything."

"Haven't you done enough?" He's not sure if she means this to hurt him, or if she's just being honest.

He wants to fix this for her. To undo something that has been written in stone, imprinted on her heart and soul. He has no answers, no solutions. He pulls her closer, so he can pretend again that this is still his loving sister. He presses his lips against her forehead, her cheekbones, her jaw. He wants more, but her words ring in his ears, the pitch uncomfortable and grating.

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't supposed to be her life. Hadn't she earned some fucking happiness? After all the motherfucking shit she had already been through, shouldn't there have been some fucking payoff?

She feels bitter when her mind wanders in this direction. She realizes just how unfair everything was. She didn't even have to look far. Her own fucking brother was a god damn murderer and he had spent his whole life walking around like he was on fucking cloud nine. And what did she get? Dragged through the fucking manure as if she hadn't spent her whole life trying to be a decent fucking human being.

So was she broken? Or was it more than that? What was that song, about the good dying young? Or that saying about the nice guy finishing last. Well wasn't she fucking learning it. Not that she was Miss Perfect. But really, she was better than this shit hole her life had become.

Everything that had brought her here had been out of her control. Right up until that moment that she found out what he was she had tried so hard to do the right thing. And on the grand scale, she thought she had done alright. Sure, cheating on your boyfriend with your ex wasn't classy or o-fucking-k. But when she measured that against Dexter? She was a fucking saint. So where were her god damn wings? Where was her free pass to a happily ever after?

To be honest, she had never been one of those little girls who believed in that sort of thing. Prince Charming and glass slippers, tiaras and white dresses, definitely not things she thought about. She had never been deluded enough to think that life was a fairy tale and everything would magically fall into place. She was far too practical, even before losing her mother and realizing her father didn't care.

When Deb thought of the future as a little girl, the things she thought of were different and very specific.

The dark, blue uniform. The shiny badge pinned to it. And, of course, Dexter.

Now when she takes a hard look at her life, the dark blue uniform is ripped, the badge sullied. And Dexter's true nature has been unveiled, hideous and frightening. She's glad she never believed in happily ever after, but she sure as fuck could use one.

* * *

He doesn't think about it when he grabs on to her, pushes her up against the refrigerator and pulls her bottom lip between his own.

This evening had been different. They had made their plans, every detail accounted for. But he felt tired, lazy even. This was the second kill in a month. Not unusually frequent, but he hadn't even begun to feel that urge, the tingling in his fingertips, when Deb had presented their next victim. He had almost asked her to wait, to just take a small break. But there was something in her face that stopped him.

She had looked oddly excited. And that should have been enough to make him doubt this. But anything akin to happiness on her was a novelty. How could he say no?

So out they had gone. And everything went as it should. And it was enjoyable, as it usually was to have Deb out with him. And actually, that was more enjoyable than the rest.

Sure, that last gasp of air, the heft of the knife in his hand had been satisfying. But as she helped him pack up the room, load the car, he could feel something missing. He longed for something different as he watched her dump the bags into the dark water.

Now as he wrapped his hand around her thigh, opened her legs wide so he could press against her, he knew this was what was missing.

He has wanted this for a long time now. Although when he thinks about it, he can't define when this desire manifested. He isn't sure when he began longing for this, when this need became more prominent than the other.

She is pliant against him. Not quite cooperative, but she doesn't fight him, doesn't resist.

He tells himself he is doing this for her. He is trying to snap her out of whatever cloud he has been under. He is trying to find that woman that confessed her love for him. This isn't about his selfish need. This is about her resignation, her hopelessness.

For the first time, she begins to respond. He can feel her arms come up around him, feel her press her body to his. He pulls away, just long enough for their eyes to connect, before he takes her mouth again. Somehow she is softer than he anticipated, sweeter than her hard, cold exterior would have him believe. It suits her, this contrast.

She is pulling at his Henley, tugging until he gives her the space to remove it, hers following close behind. He thinks about the bed they share more often than not, but he is impatient. He strips her down hurriedly, doesn't want to hesitate in case she changes her mind, runs away.

He thinks perhaps he should have some qualms about this. Deb, naked, pressed against him goes against everything their relationship is supposed to be. But without his secret to separate them, without the lies to keep them distanced, this feels inevitable. This feels right.

Instead he wants to feel every inch of her, know the curve of her hip, the weight of her breast in his palm, the sound she'll make when he scrapes his teeth against her pulse point. He needs to understand this half stranger in front of him who is so familiar yet so out of reach.

She isn't loud like he expects. He should know after all the time they have spent living together; all the boyfriends that have come and gone. She sighs and whispers "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me." Her breath is hot and wet and she bites the shell of his ear. It's the first thing she has bothered to say since he started this. So he listens to her.

He opens her khakis, shoves them down so she can toe them off. He loosens his pants, lifts one of her legs around his hip and slams into her. She grunts, wraps her hands around his ass and urges him on.

This isn't the way they should be doing this. He realizes they were probably not meant to do this at all. But he thinks she deserves better than this rough rendezvous in the dark.

Deb doesn't seem to mind, one heel digging harshly into his hamstring, egging him on. He doesn't have a chance to take care of her as he finds himself coming fast. It's over far too quickly and as he returns to his senses he takes stock of the mess. The spilled beer Deb dropped from when he grabbed her so suddenly. Their scattered clothes. Her warm, naked body pressed against him. Her breathing in his ear.

He knows she hasn't come. He slides his hand between their bodies, hoping to remedy the situation. But Deb pushes him away and he stumbles back. She looks at him warily, unashamed of her nudity.

He wonders if it was a mistake, if he's hurt her even further. He wonders if that is even possible anymore.

"I'm going to sleep." She mumbles and wanders quietly into the bedroom. He follows her, watches as she pulls the sheet over her and as her breathing slows.

He feels overwhelmed by all of it. And he wonders how she can be so calm, so detached. How can she care so little about this monumental event that has occurred between them?

* * *

He understands things now that he didn't six months, a year ago. He thinks about that moment with Hannah, when she told him she loved him. He thinks about how that felt, how he told her he thought he might love her too. How could he have been so wrong? If that was love, it pales, absolutely shrinks and dissipates in comparison with this.

He looks at Deb now and it's as if the floodgates have opened. He can recognize now how he had stamped down this feeling, held it back, for so long. He sees so clearly that it was always there, just gagged and bound and hidden out of sight.

He had told her before that he loved her. And it had been the truth. He had always loved her more than the others. She had always meant something; vivid and real in his otherwise false world. For the longest time he thought himself incapable of any emotion. But he understood that whatever he had to offer belonged to Deb alone.

Then little by little his world had chipped away at the high wall of the dam around his heart. Rita and Astor and Cody. Harrison and Lumen and Hannah. A little dribble of emotion, and then more and now so much that he can't understand anymore what it felt like before.

Yet still, it was Deb to bring the last of that wall tumbling down.

* * *

She wonders how a normal person would have reacted to all of this, because she knows she is nowhere fucking near normal. So what if an every day, average, boring woman found out her brother was a fucked up serial killer? Or maybe killed someone to save the one they love. How would they have dealt? Maybe they wouldn't have this problem, because unlike her a normal person wouldn't go and fucking fall in love with their god damn brother in the first place. And that was the problem wasn't it? When she fell in love with him.

Of course, when she really thinks about it, what else was she supposed to do? She was setup to be this way. She was probably even setup to love him. Ever since her father brought Dexter into their home there was probably no other option. Fuck, maybe even a normal person would have been driven to the insanity her life has become if they had been brought up the way she was.

* * *

He knew. He had always known. That he would be the one to destroy her. In his darkest moments he could envision it, like a verse out of the bible.

_And he would rain down crimson and fire. Wrath and Fury. And all that is light shall be reduced to ash. And all that is love will be smote by the evil which cannot be contained…_

He thinks sometimes how right he was. But it's different. It is not the terror he had imagined. It is not the obliteration which happens in an instant. This is a quiet sort of ending. A low keening as his darkness permeates softly, extinguishing the light unobtrusively. There is no fight left in the light as it is seduced by the dark.

He watches her as she sleeps and knows he has ruined her forever.

* * *

"I should have said no the first time." Dexter stares down at the spaghetti on his plate, the bright red sauce slathered over it. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Deb's fork swirling in her food, pushing it from side to side so that the tomato chunks smear wantonly against the beige plates. Her fork scrapes the ceramic and he cringes, reaches out to stop her movements with a stilling touch to her wrist.

She looks at him resigned. As the glow of the tv reflects off her face he can still picture her as a teenager. Tonight doesn't seem so different than those nights they would overcook the pasta, watch a bad horror movie and avoid their homework without adult supervision. Except now they kill people together.

His eyes move over her frame. They catch on her collarbone, more pronounced than before. It makes him think how fragile she can be, how she might wither away before his eyes.

"What have I done?" He says it softly, more to himself than to her. But he can see her eyes harden at the question. She wiggles away from him, dropping her fork with a clatter and moving into their kitchen for a fresh beer.

He gets up too, follows her. "This has to stop. I've said ok when I shouldn't have. I've given in when you said this was what you wanted. But I can't keep doing that."

Deb scowls at him but doesn't respond.

"We're not doing this anymore. Tonight was the last one."

Deb seems unimpressed. She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Remember the last time you said no? Remember when you tried to go out and do it without me? How well did that work out for you?" She smirks at him.

He can remember clearly how she stormed in on him. Screamed at him and punched him and cried until he couldn't take another second of her fury and pain. He had told her he would never do it again. He had only wanted to comfort her; afraid he might lose her for such a betrayal. But he hadn't imagined that this would still be going on, so many months later. If he had known then, might he have risked losing her just to avoid this?

"Can't you see what you're becoming?" He asks her desperately. He wants to scare her. He wants to force her to rethink all of it.

"Yeah…" Deb's eyes burn into him. "A fucking hero. Just like you, Dexter." He watches her put down her beer and walk out the door. He knows better than to follow.

* * *

She wants to feel sorry for him. She wants to feel some sort of pity, because she can see his pain. She can recognize the signs. But to feel anything like that for him would be to absolve him of blame. And she can't do that.

After all this was his doing, his creation.

Sometimes she thinks he may just be a victim himself. It's hard to imagine Dexter that way. But if she tries hard she can see the little boy, drenched in blood, alone and frightened. And she does understand that one trauma, one mindfuck of an event can change you so fundamentally that you lose control of the situation.

So maybe she should blame Harry. And she does. Oh how she blames him for every moment of her childhood when she felt alone and abandoned. And she's angry at him for what he turned her brother towards. And absolutely enraged at the fact that what he did to both of them has impacted every decision since then. Fuck. If he was hear now what would he say? Would he bother to fucking apologize for the shitty turn their lives have taken?

Yet despite all the anger she feels towards her dead father, it's Dexter she hates the most. Because she actually counted on him. She actually believed he would do no wrong. That he would take care of her. She had never believed that about her father, so every disappointment from him was expected. But Dexter was supposed to be different. Dexter was supposed to be better.

* * *

How do they go back? He wants to ask her this. He wants to shake her and scream at her and do whatever it takes to make her see. He wants to turn back the hands of time until their lives were what was intended. Until she is the person she was 18 months ago. No, further back. Back five years, maybe six. Before Rita, before Lundy, before Brian. When she was innocent to all the darkness that he wallows in. When she saw no gray. When her world was a stark black and white. There was only right and wrong. There was no in between, no cracks for her to fall through and get lost in.

But then he doesn't know how he could live with her so close, yet so far. He doesn't want to lose what he has now. He is greedy for her affection, which is cold and hard and hurts with every beat of his heart. He wants it both ways. He wants that bubbly, happy person. The one who looked at him wide eyed, and trusting. But he still wants this unknown creature which lurks in the shadows with him.

This dichotomy is impossible.

* * *

Dexter sits in his dark car and stares over the moonlit street before him. Full moon in the sky and the voice is clear. His dark passenger whispers and hisses. Blood and knives, red and shiny silver. The images are there, printed on the back of his eyelids. But it's muted, distant. The sound doesn't ring and reverberate in his ears as it should.

There's a different need mixed in. One that moves deeper. Its roots are wrapped around his insides and they throb with his pulse. This one fights with the other. It's not quite new, but it's unfamiliar nonetheless. And it is all very distracting.

Dexter frowns, rubs his fingers against his left temple and waits impatiently. Deb should have been back 20 minutes ago. If Masuka could see what she was up to, his head might explode. Their latest target was a woman who preferred women in her bed and preferred men dead. Deb was the very obvious bait. And that was probably the source of his now tender head. Anytime Deb offered herself up, he came down with a severe migraine.

He sees the door to the bar open, a long beam of light cutting out across the dim parking lot. Framed in the doorway he watches as Deb leans into the woman, her fingers twining with her new friend's as she laughs. A now familiar feeling stirs in his belly, so similar to that one he feels when he sees Deb with Quinn. He shakes it off, tries to concentrate on the task at hand as they both move towards his car sitting in the distant recesses of the lot.

Dexter slides down in his seat, hiding in the shadows as they approach. He can hear Deb whispering something, the other woman laughing and he wonders why the hell he agreed to this. Deb opens the rear passenger door and their voices become clear.

"I can't believe I'm doing this." The other woman giggles.

"Yes you can." Deb's voice seductively returns.

The woman giggles again. "Yes…"

Deb backs her into the rear seat and with her gaze pinned on his sister, she doesn't notice Dexter or the needle sliding into her neck before it's too late. From his vantage he can just see the momentary surprise before she slips into unconsciousness and slumps against the opposite door.

"Ugh. Thank god she finally shuts up." Deb shoves her body onto the floor haphazardly and Dexter wonders once again how this is actually his sister. She shuts the back door and climbs awkwardly into the front seat, her already short skirt doing her no favors.

Settled into the passenger seat she looks at him questioningly.

He shakes his head in return. "I'm surprised…that you were able to do it."

"What are you talking about?" Deb scowls at him. "I would have been faster if she wasn't so fucking chatty." Deb shifts her skirt and smirks. "Turns out I'm a pretty damn good lesbian."

She looks back at him and he sees the cruelty in her eyes. He wonders if she always had it in her, this ability to hurt without regret. Or if maybe this was something she caught from him. He wishes he had that same skill still.

But now it aches when she looks at him. He wants to ask her if she feels it too. A pain, sharp and unforgiving. But she's so closed off to him that he bites his tongue, starts the engine instead.

* * *

In hindsight it makes sense. Dexter's fascination with biology, with blood. She had never understood that. She couldn't see what drew him in. What made him so excited. Her first truly bloody crime scene had been difficult at best. She had been quite proud that she had kept the contents of her stomach, even if she wasn't able to eat for the next day and a half. But after a while it became old news. It was messy and sometimes smelly, but it was just blood.

Now there was something about it. Something deeply satisfying seeing that first tendril of crimson seeping out from that point between the knife and the flesh. It reminded her of that feeling of closing a case, the handcuffs clicking shut on a perp's wrists. There was a gladness to be found in that moment, one which often eluded her nowadays.

She should find this disturbing. She should be worried. But it's not the first time she has been relieved, even happy to know someone was dead. More than anything she should probably worry that the guilt no longer lays heavy on her shoulders. Not from any of these kills. Not even from LaGuerta. Now she wonders why she fought any of it for so long. Maybe Dexter had the right idea all along.

* * *

There is still a glimpse of her, every now and then. Like a crack in the panels of a closed curtain. He can see the light filter through and he thinks all is not lost. But as quickly as he sees it, as fast as the hope starts to blossom within him, the brightness recedes. He wonders then if it was just his imagination. Just a wishful thought which cannot be fulfilled.

She once was loving and bright. He misses this side of her. He thinks it's there still when he watches her care for his son. Some nights when she is beneath him, her warm body, pressed against him. But he has started to recognize it for the illusion that it is. He is starting to understand that whatever is beneath her new mask is dying. It can't survive what he has done to her.

* * *

It's an off night. But still she's working; vetting their next target. It's all he ever sees her do now, when she's not taking care of Harrison.

To anyone else she seems only slightly sadder, a bit weary. She can smile when she needs to. She can get out of bed and function in the world. She can trick and manipulate with surprising success.

With him she doesn't bother with the mask. She is clearly not whole. When her life shattered, broken apart by a bullet, she couldn't find all the pieces, she couldn't make things fit right. She placed it back together into some Frankenstein version of what she once was. He can visibly see the cracks, the glue, the gaps. He doesn't see how he can fix it.

He understands it's his fault entirely. He knows the firing of that bullet was a result of every action he had chosen, every lie told and life taken. So when she tells him now that she wants to help him deal with the bad guys, how can he deny her? How can he ever tell her no, even if he knows how it damages her further?

He sits down on the couch next to her bare feet. His eyes travel the length of her long, exposed legs, to the hem of her shorts. Past the laptop, the tips of her hair to her eyes, just above the screen. "Deb?"

She makes a sound that he takes as her attention. Dissatisfied he closes the laptop and pulls it away from her, placing it on the coffee table as she gives him a wary glance.

He wants to say so many things to her, but he can't verbalize them. If he was a different person maybe he could fix her. But he is the reason they are here now. Instead he rests his hands on her ankles, rubs his thumbs against her soft skin.

He hopes every time he touches her she will have some reaction. He wants desperately to look into her eyes and see the fire burning in them that he knows is Debra. But the warmth of her skin does not fool him when her look is cool and her lust is detached.

His hands continue upwards anyways. They curve around her calves, beneath her knees, up the backs of her thighs. When he reaches her shorts, he twists his fingers into the soft material and drags them off of her as she lifts her hips.

She's wearing tiny panties, light pink with a small bow. It's so strangely innocent that he almost laughs. Instead he starts at her hip, runs his tongue along the bone that juts out. He leaves the underwear on, somehow feels like he can pretend her whole life isn't darkness and blood when she's wearing something so sweetly feminine.

He kisses over the cotton, until he reaches the center where she's hot. He moves the material aside with his thumb and presses his lips against her exposed flesh. He can hear her sigh as her hand moves through his hair and her nails scratch his scalp.

He runs his tongue over the length of her, swirls it over her clit as she moans. One hand claws over his back as she presses herself against his mouth. He slips one finger inside her, and continues to suck on her clit until she is writhing beneath him. He wishes she would call out to him, but she only sighs and swears quietly under her breath.

He works her until she comes hard, her back arching away from the couch, her nails digging painfully into his flesh. He pulls back and watches her face, eyes closed, breathing slowing. Bit by bit he moves up her body and gently kisses her lips. She opens her eyes, relaxes her grip on his shoulder.

He presses his forehead against hers. "I love you." He thinks if she can just say it that there is some hope. He knows she did love him at one time. He knows she loved him so intensely she was able to break every one of her carefully constructed rules just for him. But he's worried she's not capable of it anymore. He understands now why she didn't think him able of it at one time.

For a moment her face is absolutely vacant. Then she blinks and the expression mechanically changes, a slight softening of the mouth, a tilt of the head. It's chillingly familiar. "Me too."

* * *

There's a desperation in her now that he recognizes. But he doesn't want to. He wants to pretend it isn't there. He wants to deny its existence.

But he can see it in her eyes. The set of her jaw. The anxious clawing of her hands against her skin, against his.

It's a desperation he has known well. It is one he has felt acutely. Though now it is dull; faded.

He wants to pretend this refers to something else. That maybe it refers to him. And in a way it does. Just not the way he would like.

But he can see now the way she admires the glint of the knife. The whoosh of breath she releases when it slides through like butter. Her sharp manner as she watches the blood drip and ooze. It frightens him in a way he can't describe. It leaves a gnawing hole in his stomach. He wonders if this was how she felt that first night. He finally sees what he has done. Guilt is not a strong enough word for what he feels.

* * *

Born in blood. That's what he liked to call it. There was something poetic, maybe even magical in the phrase.

But now that he sees it reflected elsewhere he is not so sure. He had not thought of it that fateful night. But now he can see how she has been reborn as well. Born in blood. Blood spilt on her sparkly dress, smeared against her once clean hands. Blood of a person that they once called a colleague, a boss, every now and then, a friend.

He finally understands her reaction those first months. He finally gets the remorse. He doesn't really understand when it came into focus, into sharp relief against the backdrop of their new lives. He had never wanted to inflict it on her. But only now he feels the full weight of that instinct.

* * *

He feels sticky, fresh, reborn. So new and yet not tender. It's a growing feeling, but he becomes more aware of it all the time. He is starting to realize that as much as Deb can no longer be who she once was, neither can he. And it's alarming. He had always thought he could never be such; he still dares not hope that this feeling is real.

But he sees the price he paid to become this. He lives with it. He watches it take care of his son. If he is truly saved, it has come at the cost of the only thing he ever loved. The only piece of his life that had always been real, even when he himself wasn't.

It seems like fitting punishment. He can finally be what he has always desired-a real boy. But now all he will ever know is the anguish of losing her. He will never feel real joy without her. He will have to live this way knowing that his happiness is just out of reach. A shell of the person he always loved. Karma is a bitch.

* * *

Dex looks down at his immobilized prey now. The itch in his fingers is gone. The last few kills have seemed mechanical and he has chalked it up to many things. Deb's presence. Deb's insistence. But he had never truly believed that it was him. He couldn't imagine that the need he once felt might be gone for good. But now as he stands over this one and looks into his pathetic, fearful eyes, there is no desire to watch the energy drain out of them. Dexter turns away, places the knife on the side table and sighs, furrows his brow in thought.

"What are you doing?" Deb sounds irritated as she saunters towards him.

"I don't know." Dex takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders. He digs deep into himself, but he can't find it. The urge is just not there. He opens his eyes, looks over at Deb and actually smiles. "I don't feel like it."

He can hear a small shuffle from behind him. Their prey is obviously hoping for a reprieve. But in front of him, his sister is livid.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" She crosses her arms in front of her and glares at him.

Dex lets out a short laugh, a near sigh of relief as he feels the weight leave him. "I just don't need to." When Deb continues to stare at him angrily he shakes his head. "I don't know why. I just…don't feel like doing this."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Deb's irritation is clearly growing.

"What? I thought you'd be happy about this." Dex looks at her for approval. "You wanted me to stop."

"Yeah, two years ago before you went and fucked up my whole life. Now I want you to do this." Deb places her hands on the table between them and leans towards him.

"We don't need to do this. We can just forget about it, move on." Dex wraps his hands around her arms, tries to make her understand.

"It doesn't fucking work that way! I NEED THIS!" Deb pulls away from him, grabs the knife he has abandoned and moves towards the man tied up a few feet away.

"Deb…" Dexter tries to get in front of her, stop her before she can go further. But she is determined and skirts around him, ending up across from Dexter. The man on the table looks from one to the other, his wide eyes darting back and forth.

Before Dexter can say another word she brings the knife down hard. The blade slices into the man, but she doesn't have the experience Dex does. It doesn't go in the right way. The edge hits a rib, changing the angle, and she nicks the artery she should have cleanly cut. It takes minutes for him to die instead of seconds. Deb watches him in silence as he sputters and coughs. Dex watches her, notices the wave of relief flood her, the glint of pleasure in her eyes, sees the last of her humanity drain away.


End file.
